


It's Never Easy When I'm with You, But I Prefer It That Way

by Sugar_Darling



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Humor, Jonathan is a good father, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4942102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugar_Darling/pseuds/Sugar_Darling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's never easy when I'm with you, but I prefer it that way."<br/>A slice-of-life peek into the lives of the small Crane family as they work through simple, everyday challenges that often escalate in severity due to Dr. Crane's profession.<br/>While their life is not even close to the perfection most aim for, both Cranes never doubt their place by each-others' side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Never Easy When I'm with You, But I Prefer It That Way

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is not a romance. This is my first published fanfiction and I rather not take on romance as the center of my work. This is mostly a slice-of-life fanfiction revolving around the small family of the Cranes as they work through simple, everyday challenges that often escalate in severity due to Dr. Crane's position as a Rogue. I chose to take on the Nolanverse mixed with the DC Comics universe. Basically, its a realistic take on the characters. Constructive criticism is most welcome, and reviews are always appreciated.
> 
> Might become a series depending on demand (if any).

The Crane house, despite the owner’s dreary reputation, was an organized and comfortable place. Mind you, it was actually rather dull in its normalcy. The walls were painted in neutral colors such as beige, off-white, or grayish green. The furniture was practical, as were the domestic appliances stationed around the house. If one were to ignore the haunting basement door placed in the farthest corner of the living room, you wouldn’t think twice before coming to the conclusion that this was a nice home for a family of two.

If you were to peek at the master bedroom, you would see bookcases stacked against the walls, accompanied by a professional desk half-way buried in notes and large texts that could only be encyclopedias. The bed, unlike the rest of the room, would always be pristine and made, clearly the only source of care within the messy room. The blinds would always be closed, an odd observation, but passable nonetheless. With such data, one can easily come to the conclusion that this must be the almost stereotypical room of a scholar of sorts. The lack of personality in such a room would have indicated to a studious and cold master, but this assumption would be trumped if one were to spot the picture of a smiling young girl on his desk, the frame polished and the picture well-preserved.

The first guest room was so different from the master in so many ways that summarizing it would still be too much. Unlike the neutral beige of the master bedroom, the guest bedroom’s walls were a lovely ocean blue, decorated with dozens of photographs varying from landscapes, objects, and humans. If you were to look at the photos, you would notice quickly that their most repeated subject was a handsome man in his late thirties. The man would always be alone in the photographs, often reading or gazing off into space. There were a few rare and especially cared-for photos that featured this man smirking at the camera or in the company of a young girl. The bed and desk that resided in this room were both neat and taken care off, the white blinders uncovering a glass window that filled the room with light. The only similarity one could possibly find between the two rooms was the presence of books, and even so the selections were obviously different.

If you were to arrive at this normal household around evening, go through the normal doorway, cross the normal living space, enter the normal hall, and introduce yourself to the normal guest room, you would find a young girl of the tender age of sixteen seated on her desk doing her assigned schoolwork.

The young girl is a pretty thing, slender and youthful like most girls her age. She has lovely fair skin, almost aglow under the bright sunlight radiating from the window, and mildly short, voluminous brunette tresses adorning her head like a crown. Her eyes are an unbelievable bright and electric blue, surrounded by thick eyelashes making them stand out even more than they already did. Her face is unique with notable sharp cheekbones and supple cheeks, a trait that didn’t quite suit her father, but suited her very nicely and only complemented her doll-like appearance. Unlike her father, this girl was not bellow her healthy weight, fortunately inheriting her mother’s build.

It is about now, when the girl is about to finish her work, that her father arrives from a long day of work.

The sound of an opening door comes from the living room entrance, signaling his expected return. The girl hurriedly finishes her last answer before exiting her room to greet her parent warmly. She arrives just as he finishes taking his shoes off, and approaches him with a smile.

“Hello, dad. How was your day?” Going by his exhausted eyes and dark scowl, she already had an idea on how his day went, but the question was nonetheless answered politely.

“There have been worse.” he answers with a tight sigh. He places his suitcase by the couch and heads for the kitchen, silently indicating her to follow. She does so and joins him as he pours himself of glass of water.

“So what happened this time? Was it Him?” the girl asks. She knows very well of the difficulties and risks that come with her father’s career, one of them being enemies. It wouldn’t be the first time that her father’s day was foiled by another, far from it.

To her mild surprise he shakes his head, putting his glass down. “Not this time. The help I hired this month is as incompetent as clowns. They managed to destroy almost half of the materials I had shipped and attracted the attention of the GCPD in the span of four hours. This setback has set my numbers off completely. It will take me weeks to fix the damage.”

The girl knew what her father meant by damage: damage to his plans, damage to his numbers, damage to the shipped materials, etc. She nods in understanding and follows her father as he moves to sit on one of the kitchen chairs. He places his face in his hands and sighs tiredly, the action alone showing the large amount of stress the day had brought him. The girl looked at her father with concern, knowing that physical contact would not be wise, even if she was inclined to do so. “Would you like me to take care of the bills this month?” she asks.

Her father removes his face from his hands and gazes at her with a look that she knew all too well. It clouded his face whenever she voiced that one question, making him seem older and more worn than he already was. It was the heavy and unmistakable presence of guilt.

He hesitates visibly, but shakes his head, “No, I’ll… I’ll sort it out.” The girl scrutinizes her father’s tired features, but knows better than to insist. If he believed he could take care of it, then she will trust him. That didn’t stop her from voicing a piece of advice though.

“You know, if you were to accept Uncle Eddie’s proposal, the process of recovery would go much quicker.” she says and prepares herself for the haughty and almost immature response that she knew would follow.

Her father’s blue eyes flash coldly and he raises himself from his seat, looming over her in a way that would have made any other person flinch. “I’ve said it a hundred times and I will continue to say it for the rest of eternity: no. I would much rather watch Nashton’s head bleed out in failure than to work with him.”

His daughter rolls her eyes, ignoring the obvious truth in his words, “Dad, he screwed up one time. ONE time! Besides, you showed me his plans; they’re solid proof! You said so yourself!” He scoffs and waves a hand dismissingly, “Same thing I said about the other ones, and look at where that got me. I won’t do it, don’t make me repeat myself.”

His daughter pouts in defeat, but manages to pull it off in a dignified manner that only she and her father could. The man sighs once more, running his spidery fingers through his thick hair, and exits the kitchen slowly, making his way towards his room without another word.

His daughter finds no offense in this and instead focuses and what she should prepare for dinner whilst her father buries his sorrows in his books.

She knew her father felt guilty about their circumstances; she knew it very well. She understood that with her father’s line of work there would be challenges on their way. Most of the time they would manage to overcome these challenges with ease, but whenever a particularly difficult one came their way (many times in the form of money problems or mandatory relocation), it always took its toll on him. Many in his profession live a rather risky life without the constant weight of responsibility over another, but unlike the rest of his peers, her father had someone to care for that was not himself. This took his once unlimited job opportunities and smashed them into pieces. After all, this is Gotham, and there is only so much a single parent can do to gain enough money to support his family without endangering it somehow.

 _My father’s a good man_ , the girl thinks as she retrieves a box of pasta from the cupboard, _an eccentric one, but good._

She cooks in silence, humming small tunes to herself as she waits for the food to be finished. She takes the opportunity to enter the living room and retrieve her father’s case, quickly making her way to his room. The door was closed but not locked, and she opens it to find a familiar sight.

Her father was sitting on his desk chair, shoulders hunched and his eyes glued to the text of a large book. The girl recognized it as a limited edition journal he had brought back one day after work. He’s probably read it about five times already since then.

“Here’s your case. Food’s almost ready.” she informs him as she places the case down. She receives a small grunt of acknowledgement and takes her leave.

Soon enough the food is ready, and the girl calls for her father just as she is finishing dishing out their servings. “Dad?” she calls again, but receives no reply. She huffs and sets the plates down on the table, “Dad, food’s done!” Surprise, surprise, no reply. The man’s daughter rolls her eyes in irritation and raises her voice to an almost screeching level. “Father, if you don’t get you scrawny ass in this kitchen right now, I will kick the shit outta you with that book!” The lack of fear in her words indicated that this was not the first time she has had to call him in such away, and it probably won’t be the last.

She feels satisfaction swell up in her chest at the sound of the master bedroom door opening, followed by light footsteps. Her father soon appears within the kitchen, his eyes following her moving form as she cleans her station before eating. He looked considerably better, she noted. Instead of resigned and tired, her father now appeared to be calm and collected. Clearly reading a journal on the weakness of the human mind brought him peace… somehow. She wasn’t very inclined as to know how.

“Sit.” she says lightly as she finishes putting the leftovers in the fridge.

“Scallops?” he asks as he takes his seat. Dinner smelled divine, and he was sure it would taste so. His daughter nods and sits across from him, “Mh-hm, thought I would reward myself for my outstanding audition last week.”

Her father cocks his right eyebrow and picks up his utensils once his daughter had taken a bite of her food. “Did you get the part then?” he asks. She shakes her head and swallows before answering, “No. A girl in drama club was a much better singer than me. She easily got the part, and frankly, I was glad she did. I regretted auditioning for Dorothy the moment I stepped onto the stage.”

This caught her father’s attention, and the girl had to fight down the sinking feeling in her stomach as a familiar malicious glint took place in his eyes. “Stage fright, my dear? Why was I not informed of this? I could have aided you.” His voice was sweet with a hint of mockery, and the girl rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Geez, it’s not like that! I just think her character’s kinda colorless. Compared to the rest, Dorothy just pales in comparison.” she explains, trying to stomp down her father’s eccentricities before they could escalate. When the iciness within his eyes dies out, she knows she was successful.

Her father appears to have woken from a dream-like state as he blinks sleepily at her. Still, he goes on as if nothing had happened. “Then did they assign a role for you?”

The girl smiles and nods, turning her gaze to her pasta. “Yeah, the Scarecrow.” Due to her gaze being turned towards her food, the girl failed to see her father’s smirk. She could still feel it in his words as he spoke, though. “And did you accept?”

It was the girl’s turn to smirk, and she replies very-much proudly, “Hell no.”

Her father chuckles at the hidden meaning behind her actions and takes a bite from his dinner. “What did they assign you then?” he asks. His daughter smiles smugly at him, “They ended up giving me the Wicked Witch of the West. It’s a small singing role, but a much better choice in my opinion.”

“A pity, though. I would have liked to assist you in overcoming your fears.” he muses.

“As if I have all that many to begin with.” his daughter quips.

“Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“That kind of context will not be allowed in this household, child.” her father scolds sternly.

“What context?” the girl smiles impishly, the action alone melting her father’s previous irritation.

They went on like that, speaking idly of their day (specifically her day) over dinner. At the end the father thanks his daughter for the meal and takes care of the dishes. The daughter takes the opportunity to start running him a bath. Her parent will be leaving to his second _work shift_ in an hour and a half, so she might as well help him prepare before he does.

While he bathes she quickly finishes the remaining problems in her homework. She finishes it quickly enough and decides to take up her reading material as her father prepares himself in his room. She hears his footsteps leave the hallway and enter the living room, disappearing into the lower and forbidden domain of the basement.

Despite her naturally curious attitude, the young adolescent has no interest in her father’s basement, knowing very well what kind of strange horrors she might find there. Her father did not have to forbid her from going there for her to know it was dangerous. She was smart enough to know her limits, even as a child, and the basement was a definite limit.

When his footsteps once again trail around the main floor, the girl knows that he must be almost done. She awaits the usual question with anticipation, grinning at the sound of her father’s indecisive footsteps.

“Child?” she hears him call. She grins widely and answers with a mockingly sweet “Yeees?”

“Have you seen my mask?” The question was filled with embarrassment masked behind casual interest, but the girl knew better.

“Between the couch cushions.” the daughter answers smugly. If her father was less dignified, she’s sure he would have verbally flipped her off.

A minute later he appears by her doorway, dressed in a worn business suit and mandatory case in hand. The girl stands to bid her father goodbye as they usually do.

“I will lock the door behind me-” he says.

“And I will lock the windows.” she finishes.

“Remember, if anything were to happen-”

“I should call Uncle Eddie or Miss Selena, never you.”

“You will find means of self-defense-”

“Inside the potted plant, five under the couch, three in the fridge, twenty in your room, and about a million in every crevice of my room. Yes, dad, I know.” She said this without malice, and her father nodded in understanding.

“Alright then. I will greet you in the morning. Sleep well, child.” In response to this rather cold farewell, the daughter throws herself against her father and wraps her arms around him in a constricting hug that would have probably snapped the skinny man in half if she were not careful.

“Night, dad, please be safe.” she says into his chest. The parent recovers from the force of the embrace and places one of his hands on her shoulder, the other on her head.

“I will, child.” he says fondly, his tone soft and full of more emotion than most would believe he could harbor.

They separate all-too soon, the father giving his daughter’s shoulder a small squeeze before he turns to leave. “Love you, dad.” the girl says after him. He stops just as he is about to open the front door, turning around to meet identical blue eyes. He didn’t reply, but the long, deep look he gave her was enough. She smiles as he turns and leaves, locking the door behind him.

She sighs and makes her way towards her room, humming softly as she retrieves her own bathing utensils. She exits her quarters and closes the door behind her out of habit, the wooden sign hanging on its front shifting slightly. She fixes the crooked sign and runs her fingers through the lovely lettering, smirking in satisfaction at the words she herself had carved many years ago (albeit with her Uncle’s help).

She walks down the hall to her bathroom, the sign on her door once again shifting crookedly, the letters proudly spelling “ **No Scarecrows Allowed (That Means You, Dad)!** ”


End file.
